


Interlude: In Memoriam

by TheSleepingKnight



Series: The Typewriter Collections [4]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 15:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight
Summary: At the end of the universe, there's a man in a bar.This is his story, in reverse.





	Interlude: In Memoriam

He washes the glasses. A simple white cloth and water are his weapons of choice, brushing away at imperfections until the glass is as clear as the purest diamond. It is thankless work, but it must be done. Someone has to keep the bar running. Has to keep this place clean and orderly. There needs to be a safe haven for those who wander in from outside. 

Sanctuary.

This is the last line of defense if everything goes wrong and the stars begin to go out. The last house in the universe. The last drink before the long darkness. And him, to protect the bar and those inside it. To give them one last conversation, one last dance. 

That’s his job. That’s what he exists for.

That’s all he ever existed for.

There’s someone new here. She hasn’t lost herself yet. Her features are clear and defined. Her skin is not dripping with the ink that is their blood. Her back has not yet been bent by true despair. Her glass green eyes burn with a fire that will not be put out. 

He decides he likes her.

He pours moon beams and stars into a glass, slide it across the table. He speaks, with a voice that isn't a voice, and is glad that she understands. Too many don't. Too many that wander in are scared. Too many leave. Too many don’t come back.

He hopes she stays.

He hopes that she doesn’t come to hate him, like the others do.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s been here a long time, now. He’s seen a lot of faces wander in and out. Men, women, monsters, myths. All of them in various stages of losing themselves. All of them look at him with surprise and revolt in their eyes, fear dawning on their faces as they connect the dots as to what he is, and what will happen to them.

They hate him, because he is their future. A thing without a face, without a voice, without identity. 

_ But that’s wrong _ , he wants to protest.  _ I do have a face. I do have a voice. I do have an identity. _

_ I’m the Bartender _ .

He remains silent, as they walk out.

He is tired of trying to convince them to stay.

Death is a choice, after all. He dare not take it from them. 

 

* * *

 

 

_ Please.  _ He says, in his static-screeching voice.  _ Please don’t go. You’ll die, or deteriorate further. This is the only safe place here. You have to stay. _

“Fuck off, freak. I’ll take my chances.”

“I gotta get out of here.”

“I— please, I— I don’t want to end up like you!”

“I’m sorry, but I have to find my way back home. There are people waiting for me.”

“I can’t run from this.”

“I have to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

He does not have eyes. He cannot cry. The ink drops are simply more of his being crumbling away.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why are you here?” One of those who stayed asked him.

_ Because someone has to be here.  _ He answers, swiping down the bar.  _ Someone to protect the bar. To provide a safe haven. Sanctuary _ .

“Why?”

_ Because he told me so. _

“Who?”

_ You’ll meet him. We all do, sooner or later. _

 

* * *

 

 

His first customer walks into the bar, and he tries to hide his excitement. 

_ Hello!  _ He chirps— if a broken vinyl could chirp, his voice is the noise it would make—  _ welcome to my bar!  _

She screams and runs out.

He tries not to be hurt by this. He’d scream if he could see himself too. 

She does not come back.

The others begin to trickle in.

Some stay longer. Some walk out the second they see him.

In the end, they all wander out.

Out into the wilds.

 

* * *

 

 

He watches ink churn and solidify into brick and mortar, the world itself birthing a house of stone. Wooden floors of dark oak and walls filled with sparkling glass rise from the ground, a construct in motion.

_ What are you making? _ He asks, still running on the joy of understanding language again. Marveling at how much had been restored to him and trying not to ask why his face had not been remade along with the rest of him. 

He had received more than most had. Asking for more seemed... ungrateful.

“I am making a bar.” God replied, eyes twinkling merrily. “Every good setting needs a bar.” 

_ I see,  _ he lies, entranced by the divine act of creation playing out before him.  _ So that’s where I’m going to live? _

“Yes.” God told him. “It’s going to be the last line of defense in case things go wrong and the stars begin to go out. The last house in the universe. The last drink before the long darkness. And you,” God said, tuning to him, the twinkling turning into a star in his eyes, “to guard the bar and those inside it. To give them one last conversation, one last dance. You will care for and protect the bar. You will provide the lost and broken a safe haven. A sanctuary.”

He absorbs these words, committing them to memory. They are all that matters, now.

This is his new life.

His new purpose.

He feels as if he could fly. After years of wondering, he’s been found. His old life is gone, burned away by God’s light, and now he’ll get to save others as he’s been saved. If he could, he’d weep for joy.

_ Thank you,  _ he says, trying to instill the vast emotion he feels swelling up upon his skin and inside the void in his chest. He hasn’t felt so much in so long. 

God’s expression turns severe, eyes cast downwards in…

Regret?

That couldn't be right. His vision must be faulty. 

“Do not thank me.” God orders, his tone icy and soft all at once. “I am not being kind. I am being cruel.” God meets his eyes again, flames still burning in lieu of irises, his lips a flat lime. “This is not a blessing. It is a curse. A curse you will carry until the end of all things. You will hate me, before all is said and done.” A mask of pain grew on his pale face. “I only hope that one day, you will forgive me.” A sigh that breathed out a mist of stars and tear drops. “That  _ she  _ will forgive me.” 

He does not know what to say to that. What could God ask forgiveness for?

“I am done,” God says, recovering from his bout of melancholy. “Enjoy your new home.”

He bows out of lack of knowing what else to do. And then he runs to the bar to begin his new life. 

His new purpose. 

He is so happy to have a purpose.

God stands and watches him go. His eyes carry infinite sadness.

“I am so sorry.” He murmurs. “But this is necessary.”

He vanishes in a swirl of stories.

 

* * *

 

 

Screaming, like a knife scraping on a ribcage, Howling, like metal cutting itself. Carve, like an animal, anything that gets in his way. That’s all he knows how to do. 

He needs more ink. More, more, more! To keep him inside, to keep him alive. He needs to feed. Needs to hunt and rend and  _ kill. _ Kill and drink. Drink the sweet and smooth ink that the  _ greedy, stupid, weak  _ ones hid in the spaces between their ribs. It’s his! It belongs to him! He needs to find more. Find. Find. Find.

Where is he? He’s lost. Lost, lost, lost. Who is he? He can’t remember. Can’t remember remember remember. He’s losing words, fast. They’re spilling, sliding, slipping off of him and splashing uselessly on the ground, leaving him cold and shivering. He’s going to die, going to die, going to die. 

_ Again. _ The word floats up through his liquid lungs. Again? He’s already died. Oh. He’s dead. He’s dead and dead and— 

Light. A sudden presence at his back. He turned, snarling to face— 

He — 

He was— 

There were so many  _ words—  _

**“Rise, Bartender.”**

With the command, the screaming in his mind ceases. His body reforms, the shape of a man’s. His face remains a swirling cloud.

“Who— What  _ are  _ you?” He asked, finally able to take in... _ his  _ appearance. The stranger wore a long cloak of feathers, raven black and gleaming with trapped stars in its depths, and the eyes were both darker and brighter still. A crimson gem, deeper and richer then he had ever seen, hung from the being’s neck and seemed to sharpen the breath in his lungs by just looking at it, the stone perfectly polished and smooth. Elegant, crisp victorian clothes peeked out from underneath the cloak. The very air around the stranger  _ hummed  _ with words, which were already attaching themselves to the wasteland around them, breathing color back into the dilapidated earth. 

This was… 

“Are you God?” He asked, breathless. Was he free? Was he done?

“Close enough, I suppose.” God smiled, stretching down a hand. With a start, he realized he had fingers again. He could  _ think  _ again. Memory, however, still escaped him. “On your feet, man. I have a task for you.”

He accepted God’s hand.

He was losing himself, he could tell. His hands dripped and faltered into watery talons, and it took constant concentration to keep his legs in the right shape. His insides sloshed around, deformed into dark blood. He snatched at fleeting fragments of memories.

_ My mother’s name was… she was… how old? Thirty? Forty? She didn’t like me very much.  _

_ I— I think I had a sister. Younger? Older? What was her name? _

_ Did I have a sister? _

_ I don’t know. _

_ I don’t remember anymore. _

 

* * *

 

 

He had been here so  _ long... _

How much longer was he going to be here? This place was awful. Some sort of ink-demons roamed the bizarre islands, tearing at anyone who got too close, eating them alive. Anyone who wasn’t one of them was just as lost as him or in the process of  _ becoming  _ one of them, features slipping and sliding as they spoke in half-intelligible phrases.

He didn’t know what to do. He was going to die. He was going to die,  _ again,  _ and this time it was going to be even more painful.

He thinks of his family, and his throat aches with a burning lump. His eyes sting from the heat.

He wishes his hands would stop dripping black.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t really expect to wake up again. In the back of his mind, he imagined pearly gates, a silvery City, a soft light and a warm hand to greet him.

Or burning. 

But this was… 

Just nothing.

Well, not nothing. An empty sky over a white void. Mismatched and bizarre islands, like someone had mashed a bunch of different maps together and then tried to make sense of it all before abandoning the project entirely. 

He really hoped this wasn’t the afterlife. This seemed boring as shit.

 

* * *

 

 

He swallows.

The rope seems to stare back at him, inviting and terrifying all at once.  _ Put me on, and all your problems are over. Put me on, and never see the sun again.  _

He glanced around his small room, trying to memorize every little detail. The small window in the corner, streaming in the three a.m. moonlight, stars laughing at him from on high. His scarred and marked walls, paint job flaking off from years of neglect and teenage messes. His desk, crammed with old homework and half-finished essays. His laptop, full of unanswered emails and abandoned drafts.

His door, which had only darkness creeping in from underneath.

He swallowed again. 

He— he had to. He  _ had  _ to. He couldn’t take it anymore. 

He put the rope around his neck, pulled until the rope kissed his neck with blistering lips.

Jump.

 

* * *

 

 

“Goodnight, Sarah.” He said, smiling at his sister for what would be the last time.

“Goodnight, Reggie.” 


End file.
